


Favoritism

by TheTrickyOwl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, Blackwatch Era, Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gabriel has it bad for Jesse and doesn't realize, Gabriel is Bad at Feelings, Hand Jobs, Jesse has it bad for Gabriel and has ALWAYS realized it, M/M, McReaper, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Soft McReyes, also porn, blood mention, mcreyes - Freeform, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTrickyOwl/pseuds/TheTrickyOwl
Summary: Jesse McCree was a lot of things: reckless, charming, arrogant, dangerous, and an incredible pain in the ass. And yet he was still Gabriel Reyes' favorite person. It only took nearly losing him in the explosion that cost the gunslinger his arm for Gabriel to finally realize that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have fallen into McReyes and I can't get up.  
> First time writing these two precious assholes. This was meant to be way shorter than it ended up being.

Upon waking, the first thing Jesse McCree noticed was the choking kiss of dust and smoke searing a path down the back of his throat, and the vague knowledge that someone, somewhere, was calling his name. Granted, he couldn’t be certain of that last bit over the piercing chime of bells ringing through his head. The stench of seared rock and dust clogged his nostrils. His head was molten with pain, fire raging in his every joint. He was flat on his back, the rocky terrain digging sharply into his skull and shoulder blades, arms extended to either side of him as the blazing orange sky churned dizzyingly above through the swirling dust.

Coughing, vision blurred and spinning, McCree attempted to shift, feeling the fingers of his right hand curling into the dry sandy earth, the grit and grime making a home beneath his fingernails. His left arm, however, felt numb. He willed the hand to move as the other did, searched for the brush of desert ground against his fingertips, and yet felt nothing. Not even the passing breeze. He shut his eyes momentarily and swiped his tongue across his cracked lips, alarmed yet unsurprised to taste the coppery bite of blood there. Through the ringing, the voice calling his name grew louder, clearer. McCree opened his mouth to respond but only a wheezing cough escaped.

A figure came into view, broad and dark and blurred as the landscape. McCree watched as it clambered down the rocky hillside and blotted out the sky as it drew near. He felt a warm set of hands suddenly reach down and cup his face, before the ringing finally stopped.

“Kid… Kid, can you hear me? Jesse?” The voice was deep and gravelly in all the proper ways, belonging to none other than Gabriel Reyes, Commander of Blackwatch. “Fuck, McCree. Answer me, damn it!” 

McCree coughed again, before managing a weak, “…Boss?”

“Shit,” Reyes’ shoulders visibly sagged when the air left his lungs in a shaky exhale. As his vision slowly cleared, McCree could see the quiet horror in his Commander’s dark, deep set eyes as he took in the sight before him. “Kid, you’re a mess.”

“M’head hurts,” McCree groaned as he squeezed his eyes shut. He attempted to move, to right himself into a sitting position, but Reyes’ firm grip on his shoulders kept him in place. “Lemmie up, _Jefe_.”

“McCree, you need to stay fucking still, you got that?” Reyes growled. 

“M’fine…”

“ _Pendejo_. You’re not fine.”

Those strong hands lifted, slipping themselves gingerly behind McCree’s neck to quickly loosen the knot that tied his red bandana in place. He frowned as Reyes removed it entirely. “What’re ya doin’?”

Reyes didn’t respond, instead standing and moving to kneel at McCree’s left side. “McCree, you need to promise me you’ll stay calm, okay?”

He didn’t like the way his Commander’s voice slightly wavered, didn’t like the faint pricks of fear he heard laced between the syllables of those words. There was little in this world that could make Gabriel Goddamn Reyes sound like that. His heart began to quicken behind his aching ribs. His fingers—the ones he could feel at least—balled themselves into a fist that seemed to cling to the desert sands for comfort. The others, however… 

McCree felt the cold wash of dread seep into his bones, making him tremble through the blooming realization. 

“I can’t… I can’t feel my arm…” he breathed.

Reyes’ expression softened. When McCree risked a glance down, Reyes stopped him by placing a hand on the side of his face, turning his eyes back up. Given the fact that he’d been silently pining for his Commander through most of the seven years he’d been working beneath him, McCree would’ve relished at the contact, given any other circumstance. But now his eyes were focused on Reyes’ face—or what he could see of it through the stinging haze of tears that suddenly distorted his vision.

“Gabe, I can’t feel my arm,” McCree repeated in a whisper barely heard above the breeze. 

“Jesse—”

“I need to see it.”

Reluctantly, Reyes’ hand fell away. As McCree slowly lifted his head, he felt the tears that had built in his ducts trickle from the corners of his eyes and into his hair. More came, however, when he finally caught sight of his arm.

Or rather, where it used to be.

What was left was a grotesque, bloodied stump that ended just above the elbow joint. Blood had pooled into the earth beneath him, soaking the dust and clay until it was red and sticky. His stomach turned, and the world around him titled on its axis and spun wildly.

“Well… ain’t that a sight.” Was all McCree managed to utter before pain erupted through the mangled limb at full force, and he screamed. 

What happened next was a blur. Somehow, Reyes had managed to hold him still him long enough to wrap the bandana around the worst part of his arm in order to cut off the bleed in the severed arteries. The pain from that alone had McCree barely grasping onto consciousness, throat ragged and tasting heavily of copper through his cries. His eyes burned from the tears and sand. Too much blood had been lost, for when Reyes slipped those strong arms beneath his body and hoisted him up, the motion had McCree almost throwing up. His head lolled drunkenly against Reyes’ chest, vision wavering. 

“C’mon, McCree, stay with me,” he heard Reyes say. “Stay awake, Jesse!”

Reyes was keeping his arm as elevated as possible. The blood was already soaking through the bandana, rivulets tickling as they swept down what remained of McCree’s arm to his shoulder. The skies above had begun darkening, vast desert landscape rushing by as Reyes ran them both back to the transport carrier. Reyes paused momentarily, however, in order to scoop something up from the ground. McCree groaned, hand curling itself into Reyes’ hoodie, which had become damp with a mixture of blood and tears. He clutched with as much strength his body could muster. 

“Gabe…” McCree whimpered.

“You stay with me,” the way in which Reyes repeated himself sounded more like a chant or a prayer, voice soft and dare he believe… desperate. Through his peripheral, McCree could see the gleam of the transport carrier’s lights approaching, though his gaze remained fixed on the way they illuminated his Commander’s striking profile. It’d be nearly an hour before they arrived back at base. 

“You give up and I’m getting Angela to revive you just so I can kick your sorry ass.” Reyes added. 

Even then, McCree had to weakly smile. His vision, however, began tunneling. He could feel his own heartbeat pounding in the stump of his mangled arm, each pump sending a shockwave of pain rocketing through him until his body shivered beyond control. He was so damn tired.

“M’cold…” he said, turning his head so that his words were muffled in Reyes’ chest.

Once inside the transport carrier, Reyes shouted a dozen orders that McCree didn’t focus on. They both settled on the cool floor of the carrier, McCree curled up with his back to his Commander’s chest as figures surrounded them and got the carrier in motion. Gauze from the First Aid kit was brought over and used to replace the sopping wet bandana. McCree’s broken cries echoed off the walls when the fabric pulled at the wound as it was removed, Reyes’ words in Spanish against the shell of his ear trying their best to soothe.

“Shh… _estarás bien_. I got you, McCree. You’re okay.” Reyes murmured once the clean white gauze was pinned in place. A familiar weight was suddenly settled upon his aching head, and McCree didn’t have to look up to know what it was. 

“My hat,” McCree practically sobbed, reaching up to touch the dusty old brim. 

“Wasn’t letting you leave without it, _vaquero_.”

McCree could only whimper, hating the way the vibrations from the moving transport carrier only worsened his nausea in this tender moment. He shut his eyes, focused instead on the solid press of his Commander’s strong body, on the scent of the scorched desert earth lingering between them, and on the way McCree’s remaining hand was enfolded in Reyes’ and held close for the remainder of the ride.

There were worse places he could die.

\----------------------------------------------

“Have you slept yet, Gabriel?”

His head felt heavy as he lifted it from the cradle of his palms, dark eyes turning back in time to watch the young Dr. Angela Ziegler slip in through the Med Bay doors. She had McCree’s chart clutched in one dainty hand and a mug of coffee in the other. The scent of the darkly roasted beans wafted over from the coils of steam rising from its surface, and Reyes sighed appreciatively when she extended the mug to him.

“That obvious, Doc?” He grunted.

“You haven’t even changed out of your filthy mission gear,” she pointed out, gesturing toward Reyes with the end of her pen. 

“I’m fine,” Reyes murmured, lifting the warm mug to his mouth and sipping. “I promise not to rub myself on anything in here if it makes you feel better.”

“He isn’t going anywhere,” she tried explaining while rounding the bed Reyes had been posted at for hours. “You’re allowed to rest.”

“I will when I feel like it.”

Reyes cast his eyes over the silent figure in the bed, illuminated by the pale glow of the rising sun slanting in through the nearby bay windows. McCree hadn’t yet woken since losing consciousness halfway through the transport back to base, the agony and blood loss too much for him to take. The gunslinger looked well now, if anything. The color had returned to his cheeks and his breathing was deep and steady through the clear tubes under his nose, with only the slightest hint of discomfort scrunching his features as he shifted in his sleep. Surgery had been successful; what remained of his left arm wrapped snugly in clean white bindings that were changed routinely by the med staff. The dark fabric of Reyes’ hoodie was stiff with layers of desert sand and dried blood, and he dropped his head into his hand, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose as his headache only worsened. 

“Those flowers are lovely,” Angela smiled at the small vase of white desert lilies at McCree’s bedside. “From you?”

Reyes shook his head. “Ana.”

“A sweet gesture.”

“She adores the kid. Dropped them off before leaving on a mission with Jack earlier.”

“How badly did Commander Morrison take it?” Angela inquired, eyes cast down as she made notes and ticks on the chart in her hands. 

“Called McCree a damn reckless idiot for running in there,” Reyes snorted, leaning back in his chair. “He’s never worked with the kid like I have. It’s like wrangling a damn wild stallion, especially on missions down in the Southwest. Years of running with Deadlock means McCree knows that area like the back of his hand. Acts like he carved those canyon passes himself. Thinks he knows every trick in the book, and for the most part he’s right. But, last night…” Reyes trailed off, fingers tightening their hold around the mug.

“You were all caught by surprise,” Angela said reassuringly. 

“It was a tactical error, and I blame myself for it. I should’ve known they’d be planning something for us.”

Angela could only sigh, tucking back a stray tendril of blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail. When she rounded the bed and returned to his side, the weight of her hand upon his shoulder was oddly comforting. Reyes closed his eyes briefly as she gave him a squeeze.

“You worry about Jesse. You care for him.” She smiled.

Reyes downed the remaining sip of coffee in his mug, chest feeling inexplicably tight. “No more than I care for anyone else in my charge.”

“You say that, and yet I’ve never seen you post yourself at the bedside of any other Blackwatch member that’s passed through my Med Bay.” 

“I’ve checked on my men many times.”

“Never for this long, Gabriel.”

Reyes opened his mouth to argue, jaw working and yet no sound passing his lips. He had no retort. Instead he shucked off his beanie and raked fingers back though his thick curls, listening to the click of Angela’s heels fade away until all he could focus on was the soft sound of McCree’s breathing and the steady beep of the heart monitor nearby. Reyes could feel his expression soften just by looking at the kid.

Well… not a kid any longer, to be fair. McCree was in his twenties now. Towering at six feet tall, and filled out nicely since the first time Reyes got a good look at him all those years ago when Overwatch had taken down the infamous Deadlock Gang. He’d been a scrawny, foul-mouthed little spitfire of a seventeen-year-old in ratty old Western clothes. Had the balls to even take a damn swing at Morrison the moment his shackles came loose in the interrogation room. Morrison had wanted him booked; called him a lost cause, but Reyes… Reyes saw potential in the kid. McCree had a remarkable talent for strategy; cunning and sly and charming in all the right ways, and the best damn marksman Reyes had ever seen. His skill with that old six-shooter of his had been incredible even then, and he’d only gotten better beneath the shadow of Blackwatch. Reyes had made sure of it. 

Shit taste in booze, though. The whiskey McCree seemed to favor was more gasoline than anything, but at least they had the same fondness for those cigarillos that filled a room with sharp, spiced smoke. Many a mission had ended with the two of them sharing one in the transport carrier, much to Angela’s distaste.

The chair he’d been planted in for hours creaked in protest as Reyes at last rose up and moved to stand above the gunslinger’s bed. Gingerly, he reached down and brushed aside McCree’s bangs, letting the back of his fingers caress the growing beard on that strong, angular jaw. McCree sighed deeply, head turning, seeking out and leaning into the touch.

“Damn it, _cariño_ ,” Reyes breathed, head shaking. “You’re making me go soft.”

McCree’s eyes drifted open. “Am I?”

Reyes stepped back, hand removing itself from McCree’s cheek as if it’d been burned. “You little shit,” he would’ve laughed if he wasn’t already mortified by the heat blooming in his cheeks. “How long have you been awake?”

McCree’s smirk was all arrogance, though his exhaustion was still apparent. “Since before Doc Ziegler arrived.”

“I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Dunno if you’re capable, _Jefe_ ,” McCree replied. “I mean, accordin’ to Doc it seems like I might be your favorite. Wouldn’t argue with someone who has a medical degree. She’s super smart ‘n’ all.”

“You’re a thorn in my side is what you are, McCree.”

McCree could only chuckle, the sound weak in his raw, worn throat. As the gunslinger moved to sit up higher upon the pillow, Reyes heard him hiss sharply through clenched teeth, hand settling over the bandages. Instinctively he moved forward to assist, smoothing back McCree’s pesky bangs once he’d found a comfortable position. Normally, Reyes was never this physical, this… affectionate. But there had always been something about Jesse McCree. Something he ached to protect.

“How’re you feeling?” Reyes asked.

McCree shrugged. “All right.” He seemed to search his Commander’s face, before lifting his remaining arm and waggling his fingers with a grin. “Get it? _All right_.”

Reyes groaned, spewing a string of Spanish curses under his breath. “You would make a shit joke of it.”

“Someone’s gotta.” McCree frowned until a hairline crease formed between his dark brows as he looked Reyes up and down. “You look like hell, Boss.”

“Thank you.” Reyes grunted.

“Heard Doc say you’ve been camped next to me since I got outta surgery,” McCree said, and Reyes was hyper aware of the way the kid had reached up and began idly playing with the pull strings of his hoodie. “Worried about me, were ya?”

Reyes rolled his eyes, despite the smirk that pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I was actually waiting to see if you’d take a turn for the worse so I could get first dibs on all your good shit.”

“I’m already leavin’ you my favorite pair of assless chaps in my will.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Reyes smiled warmly, headache forgotten as McCree began wrapping the hoodie strings around his fingers, forcing his Commander to lean in a touch further. He could feel the air between their gazes crackle with something not unlike anticipation.

“Thank you,” McCree whispered. “For savin’ my life out there.”

Reyes frowned. “I did what anyone would do. It was my fault you got messed up in the first place.”

“It ain’t your fault I ran in there.”

“I should have stopped you. Ordered you to hang back.” Reyes shook his head as he replayed the incident for the hundredth time in his mind’s eye. Every step, every detail, had haunted him from the moment he discovered McCree’s body amongst the rubble. “Had I known those assholes had rigged the gorge with explosives—”

“But you didn’t. None of us did. And if I recall correctly, _Jefe_ , you shouted my name the moment I took off runnin’. I just didn’t listen. For that? I’m the one who’s sorry.” McCree was searching his face, or rather studying it. Memorizing it, almost. Reyes could see his warm brown eyes following the pale, faded scars slashed across his nose and cheeks. Remnants of the Omnic War. A small part of him wondered what the gunslinger’s smart mouth would feel like against them, soothing the marred skin.

“I forgive you, if that makes ya feel any better.” McCree smiled lazily, lids heavy and lashes gleaming like gold in the beam of sunlight that struck them. The freckles on his sun-bronzed skin seemed more apparent today. “I mean, for the lost arm at least. Still kinda ticked you went and got my favorite bandana all ruined.”

“I stopped for your ridiculous fucking hat, _cabrón_. What more do you want?” 

“A bandana.”

Reyes chuckled. “I’ll get you a new one. Or maybe a sarape would better suit you.”

“Maybe it would.”

With great reluctance, Reyes drew back, letting McCree’s hold on his hoodie strings fall away. Had he been foolish enough, he would have believed he’d seen disappointment flicker across the gunslinger’s face for a moment. Reyes sighed, slipping his beanie back on and fetching the remote from the side table to hand to McCree.

“I need a shower,” he explained. “Shower, fresh clothes, and to get started on the damn mission report.”

McCree frowned, concern etching deep in his young roguish features. “Don’tcha need to sleep, Gabe?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he smirked reassuringly. “I’ll be back to check in on your sorry ass the moment I’m done. In the meantime,” Reyes gestured toward the flat screen on the wall in front of McCree’s bed. “Relax. Watch some shitty daytime television. And please… no porn.”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to, _Jefe_. I lost my favorite jerkin’ hand.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“And yet,” McCree hummed and nestled back into the plush white pillows, hair fanning out around him as his remaining arm folded itself behind his head. “I’m still your favorite.”

Reyes didn’t argue against that statement before he left, hiding a smile as he did so.

\----------------------------------------------

McCree was well into his third Western film by the time Reyes returned to the Med Bay, broad form filling out the doorway. He’d changed into more casual gear for the evening; tight-fitted black t-shirt and loose grey sweats that hung low on his hips. His freshly washed hair was hidden beneath his usual beanie. 

McCree felt his mouth go dry at the sight of him stalking in, a familiar sensation not unlike the day he’d first encountered Reyes in Overwatch’s interrogation room. A dizzying blend of intimidation, quiet respect, and a warm infuriating desire. Reyes had always had a presence about him, one that locked in the eyes and sucked up the air from whatever room he swept into. His fierce dedication to the job and brutal honesty set him apart from the other high ranking officers in McCree’s eyes. Reyes wasn’t afraid to do what he had to do to ensure the success of his soldiers. He understood them, nurtured their unique talents, tore them a new one if they messed up big but never hesitated to offer a chance at redemption. He was a mentor and brother as much as he was a Commander. The men adored him and feared him all at once. 

Reyes was the one who’d swept him off the streets and offered him a second chance at life. McCree had never respected anyone more.

Nor desired.

“A cowboy movie,” Reyes said in a flat tone. “Wow. You never cease to surprise.”

“Shaddap,” McCree laughed weakly, arm aching something fierce from the visit Angela had paid to him less than an hour before. She’d taken measurements and set forth into designing a new cybernetic arm. “This is a damn classic, you uncultured git.”

“They’re all classics to you.”

McCree only smiled, watching as his Commander dragged over the nearby chair and dropped his weight onto it. Reyes lounged back, socked feet propping themselves on the side of the medical bed. He was holding a brown paper bag in his lap, and McCree eyed it curiously as he reached inside.

The smell struck him first; hot chilies, garlic, and rich spices wafting up with the steam. McCree’s eyes widened. “Are those _flautas_?”

“Maybe,” Reyes smirked as he drew out two. McCree almost sobbed as one was extended his way, cradled in a napkin. “Thought you might like a small break from the hospital food. Don’t tell Angela.”

“Doc’s been forcin’ tasteless steamed veggies and chicken on me, _Jefe_ …”

“ _Pobre cosa_. You’ve been in here less than a day and you’re suffering already.” Reyes dug further into the bag, drawing out small Styrofoam cups labeled with the logo from their favorite Mexican take out place. “Brought queso fresco and salsa as well.”

McCree was already tucking in, mouth filled with crisp tortilla and spiced beef. “And my hot sauce?”

“Would never forget that.”

“Fuckin’ bless you.”

They ate together in comfortable silence, enjoying the second act of the old black and white Western while the sharp orange light slowly faded behind the distant mountains. Every so often, McCree would find his eyes drifting from the screen to settle on Reyes’ face; on that warm brown skin and strong, bearded jawline. He had every dip and plane and pale scar memorized. Reyes looked softer here, out of uniform and away from the team. McCree loved seeing him like this. Faint creases appeared on the corners of his Commander’s eyes as he smiled during a witty line, though his sudden yawn betrayed him.

“Have you fuckin’ slept yet, Gabe?” McCree frowned.

Reyes laughed. “No, and I’m starting to feel it.”

McCree huffed, shifting on the bed until there was a large vacant patch of mattress between them. He patted at it. “Get in here.”

Reyes stared at the gunslinger as if he’d just sprouted a second head. “You know I’m not going to fit on there.”

“I said get in here.”

“I have my own bed, Jesse.”

McCree clicked his tongue. “You really willin’ to walk that far? At least stay until the movie’s done.”

There came a long, hesitant pause before McCree felt the mattress beside him dip as Reyes carefully lowered his weight onto it. It was a tight squeeze, no question about that, but the last thing McCree would ever complain about would be the warmth of his Commander’s body as it pressed against his right side. It was awkward; a few moments of murmuring and shuffling and legs tangling in the bedsheets, before at last they found themselves settled in. Reyes had slipped one of his arms behind McCree’s head, allowing his broad chest to serve as a pillow for the gunslinger. McCree had turned onto his good side, trembling through a long exhale as he felt Reyes’ arm fold around him until his hand begin gently kneading the shoulder above his amputated arm. An unexpected touch that had the gunslinger’s heart stuttering in his chest, despite the ache.

“Sore?” Reyes asked softly.

“Mm,” McCree hummed, wincing as his eyes drifted shut. Hell, that felt nice. “Doc reckons I’ll be feelin’ them phantom pains for the rest o’ my days, even after I get my new arm.”

If Reyes nodded McCree didn’t notice, as he was too focused on the way those blunt-tipped fingers gently worked at the curve of muscle right above where the bandages started. Slow, circular motions that sent goosebumps skittering up the back of his neck. He groaned, nose burying itself in his Commander’s shirt and breathing in deep. 

“Ya smell nice,” McCree murmured without thinking.

Reyes’ chuckle rumbled deep within his chest, like the growl of distant thunder over the sea. “A shower will do that.”

McCree lost track of how long they laid together this way, the sounds of the film just background noise for the steady, thunderous pound of Reyes’ heartbeat right beneath his ear. McCree’s eyes remained closed, though he didn’t sleep, too focused on the way his Commander’s fingers worked their way to the back of his neck, and then into his hair. Soft sounds were escaping him; tiny sighs and moans while his body seemed to melt further into the mattress. Reyes found a spot just behind McCree’s ear and rubbed there, and McCree ached to touch him back. His one remaining arm was trapped beneath him. He had no manner of reaching out, of encircling Reyes’ trim waist and gathering him closer, of keeping him here, right here, until the end of goddamn time. 

When McCree opened his eyes at last, the room had grown darker, storm clouds sweeping in and choking out the last remaining rays of light. A gentle rain was pattering against the Med Bay windows, steady and sleepy. When he glanced over at the flat screen, McCree saw the end credits of the film already rolling, and yet Reyes was still here. 

McCree tilted his head up just enough to meet their eyes in the darkness. Reyes was still awake, still massaging patterns into the gunslinger’s scalp, though the droop of his eyelids revealed that he wouldn’t be conscious for much longer. The guy looked beat. He did this often; working himself to the brink, running on nothing but black coffee and fumes until at last his body could take no more. McCree cursed his lost arm. Cursed the inability to reach up and touch Reyes’ face as their slow breaths collided between them. McCree could only shift closer.

“Please don’t leave yet,” he whispered, wishing he had fingers to curl into Reyes’ t-shirt.

Even with what little light they had, McCree saw Reyes smile. One of those soft, rare smiles reserved only for him. McCree had never witnessed Gabriel Reyes share that smile with anyone else. Not with Ana nor her daughter Fareeha, not with Angela. Hell, not even with Morrison, and Jack had practically been Reyes’ brother once. It was a damn honor to be smiled at like that.

That was when Reyes dropped his head and pressed their foreheads together. One little motion that caught the gunslinger completely off-guard. McCree’s breathing caught in his throat and his heart stammered before rocketing off and slamming against the inside of his ribcage. He almost whimpered. Their noses brushed together, and their mouths were unbearably, cruelly close. 

“Go to sleep,” he heard Reyes breathe, his exhale washing over the gunslinger’s lips.

“Don’t wanna.”

There was that chuckle again. Hell, how he loved that sound. “Are you refusing to obey an order?”

McCree grinned. “Yes.”

“That’s a punishable offense.”

“You gonna spank me, _Jefe_?”

Reyes’ chuckle was a full-blown laugh, now; an even rarer anomaly than the sight of that smile. McCree felt his chest swell with pride at the fact that he could draw out both things with little effort. He was exhausted though. They both were, and the rainfall outside was doing little to help. With each passing moment, he could see Reyes’ eyes growing heavier, and it would be cruel to put his own selfish desires ahead of his Commander’s needs. 

But, fuck… how he ached to kiss him.

“Will you stay?” McCree murmured. 

“Of course.”

The gunslinger found himself drifting off not long after, cradled in the arms of the man he could feel himself slowly falling in love with. 

\----------------------------------------------

“How’s McCree holding up?”

Reyes paused mid-stride, swiveling on the heel of his boot to direct his gaze at the speaker of those words. Jack Morrison, Strike Commander of Overwatch, was just stepping out through the grand double doors of his office. The hem of his long blue coat billowed out as he strode forward with those proud upright shoulders, blonde and blue-eyed and effortlessly heroic. The poster child of the American dream. The very sight of him left a sour taste at the back of Reyes’ tongue, and a clenching ache in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t even let Reyes enjoy his morning cup of coffee in peace.

He hated hating Jack Morrison, but the bastard wasn’t making it hard.

Reyes’ brow furrowed as he studied the man he once considered his brother and closest friend. “Since when have you ever taken an interest in his well being?”

“I’m not heartless, Gabe. Just because I’m not entirely fond of the kid doesn’t mean I don’t give a shit. He’s a good agent.” Morrison stood before him, now, a touch shorter and narrower in size than the Blackwatch Commander. Still, Reyes felt utterly swallowed up by his shadow. 

“If you’re worried about Blackwatch losing its best marksman, rest assured. He’ll be fine.”

“You think I care more about the job than the people doing them?”

Reyes didn’t respond, trusting the deafening silence to do all the answering for him. Morrison’s broad chest deflated as he heaved out a sigh, shifting his weight from one boot to the other as he placed both fists upon his hips. The silence lingered between them, filling the brightly lit corridor where they stood like a cloying fog.

“I will repeat myself until I’m blue in the face, Gabe. I didn’t ask for the promotion.” Morrison said softly, eyes trained on the floor between them.

Reyes scoffed and shook his head, hoping a sip of coffee would assist him in swallowing down the scathing words he wished he could say. There’d been a rift between the two of them for years, now. A gaping canyon that Morrison relentlessly attempted to build a bridge over, despite the countless times Reyes had set it aflame. He wanted nothing more to do with Overwatch’s most prized possession. Their little Boy Scout. 

At first, the loss of Morrison had felt like a strike to the stomach, knocking Reyes breathlessly onto his knees, and Blackwatch had been his saving grace in its own twisted way. It had become a job he could pour all of himself into, something he could build from the ground up until it muffled the sound of his own heart shattering. Despite the fact that he now devoted himself to a career of assassinations, kidnappings, and torture, a job was a job, and Reyes did his well. In only a few short years, he had developed and commanded the best covert Black Ops Unit around. 

And with it, came the presence of Jesse McCree. Perhaps the true saving grace in all of this, though Reyes had never truly admitted it to himself until now.

“I have work to do,” he grunted while turning away.

“Off to check on McCree?” Morrison asked, causing Reyes to once again pause in his tracks.

Reyes peered over his shoulder at him, eyes narrowed. “I feel like you’re dancing around a subject, so just spit it out, Morrison. I’m getting old, here.”

“You seem fond of the kid.”

“I’ve been working alongside him for seven years, Jack.”

Morrison quirked one blonde brow. “Alongside? You’re his boss. He works for you. Or are those lines looking a little blurred lately?”

“Excuse me?” 

“You think I’m the only one who’s noticed the way you two are around each other? How buddy-buddy you’ve gotten over the years? When McCree first joined, he was scared shitless of you. He respected you, straightened his damn back whenever you walked by, did everything he could to gain your favor.” Morrison raised his hand to silence Reyes when he opened his mouth to protest. “Most of the Blackwatch agents did, I know. You’re a decorated war hero. But McCree seems to be the only one of them you’ve actually allowed to grow close to you. Why is that?”

Reyes couldn’t believe what he was listening to. “It’s called friendship. A foreign concept to you, I’ve grown to realize.”

Morrison shook his head. “This is more than that, Gabe, and you know it. You like the kid.”

“Shocking. He’s likeable.”

“I mean you _like_ like him.”

“ _Like_ like? What are we, twelve?”

“You know what I meant, Gabe.” Morrison pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, and Reyes couldn’t help but notice how much older he looked since becoming Strike Commander, stress and exhaustion apparent in the deepening lines on his otherwise flawless face. “You weren’t exactly fond of McCree when you offered him a place in Blackwatch. Barely cast him a second look most of the time, and now you post yourself at his bedside for hours on end.”

“Your point?” Reyes took another sip of his coffee, irked that it was quickly growing cold.

“My point is that relationships between Commanders and their agents is a hefty risk. I don’t care what you two do behind closed doors, but understand that it could affect your roles. You start showing favoritism and people will start questioning your ability to lead.”

It was Reyes’ turn to raise a brow. “Are _you_ questioning it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It was implied.”

Morrison’s eyes softened, and his tone grew quiet. “Please stop looking for reasons to fight with me, Gabe. I’m on your side. I always have been.”

Reyes looked away, chest heavy, fingers tightening their hold on the ceramic mug until his knuckles bloomed white. 

Morrison exhaled gently and raked fingers back through his blonde hair. “Is he at least suspended?”

“Suspended for what exactly?” Reyes’ frown deepened. 

“Reckless behavior during your last mission.”

“Jack.” Reyes stared hard at him. “He was blown up. He lost his arm.”

“Because he ran headfirst into a trap, despite your attempts to hold him back. Anyone else did that, you’d tear them a new asshole regardless of how many limbs they lost. But for some reason, McCree is off the hook.”

Reyes was growing agitated as he scrubbed a hand over his beard, glaring at the blank wall ahead of him. Suspension hadn’t been something he even considered. Why would it? He didn’t blame McCree in the slightest for what transpired in the Southwest. The gunslinger had been a casualty and nothing more. 

Did he only believe that because he had grown soft? 

Damn it, Morrison was getting in his head.

Then again, the idea of McCree spending a few necessary days off the field wasn’t unappealing, not for punishment’s sake, but for his own personal worries. McCree had been injured only three days before, and already he was preparing himself for the upcoming assignment in King’s Row. The gunslinger was restless, itching for an excuse to bid the damn Med Bay farewell and get back in the game. A hard worker through and through, and Reyes admired the hell out of that. 

But the thought of McCree throwing himself into harms way so soon after his brush with death was enough to make Reyes’ stomach twist.

Fuck, Morrison was right. He was soft. Stupidly, stupidly soft for the kid.

“Fine. He’s suspended for the remainder of the week. Would that pull the stick out of your ass?”

“You’re missing the point, Gabe.” Morrison stepped forward and reached out to place a hand upon Reyes’ shoulder. Reyes moved away, denying him. Morrison only clicked his tongue. “I want you to suspend him because he fucked up, not because you’re being made to. You turn the other way, and he runs wild. You seem to forget where it is the kid came from. He was a damn criminal once and he’ll take advantage of you.”

Reyes glared daggers. “If you spent any fraction of time with the kid, you’d know that he’s a good fucking person. One of the best I’ve ever known. He watches my back and I watch his. We’re a team. The _best_ team. If you can’t seem to handle that, then the problem isn’t with me or McCree and whatever relationship you think we may have.”

“Are you denying a relationship?”

“I’m saying stay out of my goddamn business, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

The exasperated sound Morrison made told Reyes that the argument was basically over. As he turned to leave, there came no protest from his former friend, and Reyes marched through the doors at the end of the corridor and made for the Med Bay. 

\----------------------------------------------

“The hell do you mean I ain’t comin’ with you?!”

Reyes had expected this reaction, arms folding over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe leading into the Med Bay. McCree was perched on the edge of an examination table, donned in faded blue jeans and a sleeveless tank top with his left arm fitted into a gleaming cybernetic prosthetic. A stunning piece forged from silver and chrome, the shape of a skull deeply embossed into the forearm. It whirred and clicked with each subtle movement and flex of its robotic fingers. It suited him well. Angela was seated on a wheeled stool before the gunslinger as she focused her attention on calibrating the arm, tongue clicking in annoyance every time McCree shifted or stirred while she worked.

“I’m not here to argue with you, McCree. It’s a routine assignment down in King’s Row. Should take no more than a few days.” Reyes explained.

“You’re flyin’ all the way to damn England, _Jefe_. I should at least be there to have your back.” McCree argued.

Reyes had to chuckle. “I’ve had an entire military career without you. I think I can handle one mission overseas, and it’s not like I’ll be going at it alone. Six Blackwatch agents will be joining me.”

“The mission can’t wait a couple hours until my arm is ready? Not that it makes much difference. I shoot with my other hand, anyhow.”

“Your arm isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

Reyes hesitated with his response, mind whirring through the ten thousand possible reactions the gunslinger could have. None of which ended well. “You’re suspended.”

McCree stared in silence for what seemed like hours, any joviality in his expression wiped away. “…What?” 

It wasn’t until after Angela politely excused herself to offer them a moment alone that Reyes stepped away from the wall to explain himself. “It’s only for the remainder of the week.”

McCree was still quiet, and Reyes watched as he hopped down from the examination table and reached into the back pocket of his jeans to pull out a ratty old pack of cigarillos and his lighter. Angela would unquestionably wring his neck once she found him smoking in her Med Bay, leaving ashes and the spiced whiff of smoke lingering long after McCree departs, contaminating her pristine work space. Still, the gunslinger lit up, filling his lungs with a deep inhale before slowly sighing out a cloud of grey overhead. 

McCree looked beautiful framed in smoke. Always had.

“The reason?” He finally asked, eerily flat-toned. 

Reyes shifted his weight from one boot to the other, hands stuffing themselves into the front pockets of his hoodie. “On record? Reckless behavior during our last mission.”

“Wait…” That was when McCree rounded on him, eyes blazing. “Are… are you fuckin’ tellin’ me that I’m being punished because I got _blown up_?”

“That isn’t at all what—”

“Cause it certainly sounds like you’re punishing me for gettin’ hurt in an explosion.” McCree cut him off with a growl, voice raising. It wasn’t often that McCree lost control of his temper, but when he did, it was akin to the crack of a blackened thunderhead over the desert plains. A warning of something far worse yet to come. He jabbed at the air toward his Commander with his lit cigarillo. “Something that, if I recall correctly, _you_ blamed yourself for.”

Regardless, Reyes kept calm, even as his own chest began to ache. “This isn’t punishment.”

“Then what the _fuck_ is it, Reyes?!”

Ah, there it was. The use of his last name. No Gabe, no _Jefe_ , no ridiculous yet affectionate nickname whatsoever. That was when Reyes knew the gunslinger was seething. He hadn’t called his Commander that since his earlier days in Blackwatch, and Reyes didn’t expect that the sound of his own name could sting so bad.

“It’s protocol.” Reyes stated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.

“Protocol?! Protocol my ass. You’ve never given a shit about protocol before.” McCree took another drag and tapped out the ashes on the floor. Angela was going to kill them both. “You ain’t no Boy Scout pencil pusher like Morrison.”

“Careful.” Reyes warned, eyes narrowing. 

“No, there’s somethin’ more to this. There’s another reason why you don’t want me goin’ with you.” McCree was pacing, now, like a caged bull. The spurs on the back of his boots jangled with every stomp. “You said my ‘reckless behavior’…” he crudely mimicked Reyes’ rough voice while making air quotes. “…as you so put it was the reason on record. I’m guessin’ records for Morrison’s convenience, right?” He stepped close, voice lowering. “What’s the reason off record? What’s _your_ reason?”

The son of a bitch was too smart for his own good, sometimes. “This isn’t up for debate, McCree. It’s an order from your Commander, which you will obey. You remain here. End of story.”

McCree was standing eye to eye with him, now, as the cigarillo dangled from between his lips. It still amazed Reyes how much he’d grown since their first encounter. The gunslinger had sprouted up like a damn tree, widened and filled out and strengthened. 

“What’s the damn reason?” McCree hissed as he seized Reyes’ hoodie in his metal fingers and yanked him closer. The smoke surrounded them both, now.

“I can’t stand the idea of losing you.”

The anger in McCree’s expression extinguished itself even quicker than the joy previously had. Reyes felt the fingers gripping onto his hoodie loosen, but not release. His own heart was a volcanic roar in his ears, so much so that he barely heard his own voice as he spoke.

“Three days ago, I held you in my arms as you nearly bled out from limb loss. Relinquished sleep and responsibility as a Commander to remain by your bedside because I couldn’t stand the idea of you waking up from that alone. You think no one noticed?” Reyes shook his head, chest heavy. “There’s been talk, and Morrison pulled me aside this morning for a pleasant little chat regarding favoritism. Said he didn’t give a shit what you and I did behind closed doors as long as it didn’t affect our roles in Blackwatch. Personally, he can shove it up his ass. He just doesn’t like you cause you punched him when you were seventeen and his pride hasn’t healed.”

The slightest smirk appeared on McCree’s lips. 

“But, you nearly died on my watch, Jesse, so sue me for wanting to keep you off the field for a few more days to preserve my own goddamn sanity. Take this as a vacation. Heal, work with that arm, get some time in at the gym and gun range. The temporary suspension is just a title so Morrison can lay off.” Reyes reached up, brushing a thumb carefully over the scarred skin where McCree’s bicep went from flesh to chrome.

McCree clicked his tongue. “Damn it, _Jefe_ , you could’a told me from the beginnin’.”

“I know,” Reyes smiled apologetically. “I’d just rather you be pissed because of protocol than because your jackass of a Commander is going soft.”

“Now why would you goin’ soft for me ever get me riled up? I’m honored, really.” McCree grinned. “Gabriel Reyes isn’t as immune to my charms as he first thought.”

“Now you’re pushing it.” Reyes attempted to scold, but his smile remained. 

McCree tossed down his cigarillo, stamping it out with the heel of his boot as his arms lifted and slipped themselves around Reyes’ neck, drawing him in. Their foreheads met and Reyes sighed when their noses brushed together, drowning in the scent of smoke and Jesse McCree. He smoothed back the gunslinger’s tousled brown hair, letting his fingers linger in that thick mop, finding the spot behind his ear he knew McCree liked and rubbing there. 

“Knew I was your favorite.” McCree sighed contently. 

“Asshole.”

McCree laughed and nuzzled their noses together again. “Can I ask ya a question, darlin’?” 

“Mhm,” Reyes hummed, enjoying the pet name. That was a new one.

“Why aren’t you kissing me right now?”

Reyes almost groaned. “The transport carrier leaves for King’s Row in five minutes.”

“And?”

Without warning, Reyes turned them both and shoved McCree back against the nearest wall, the force of the impact causing a clock mounted nearby to nearly fall. The gunslinger yelped in surprise as he was caged in by his Commander’s massive arms, breathing audibly quickening as Reyes leaned in close. 

“And if I finally get a taste of that smart mouth of yours, _cariño_ , I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Gabe,” McCree visibly shivered as Reyes traced the line of his jaw with the tip of his nose and exhaled hot breath against his ear. “P-Please.”

Reyes grinned, dropping his head to suddenly devour the exposed curve of McCree’s neck. The gunslinger gasped, hands scrambling for purchase on his Commander’s hoodie, a lengthy groan escaping him as Reyes’ tongue and teeth set to work on his skin with every intention to mark. He tasted of salt and smoke and desert sun. Reyes moaned deeply, hips surging forward when McCree lifted a leg to curl around his waist. The spur at the back of his boot dug sharply into Reyes’ thigh, making him growl possessively and bite down.

“F-Fuck, Gabe!” McCree keened. 

Reyes drew back just enough to soothe the aching skin with slow, careful swipes of his tongue. The side of McCree’s neck was throbbing red, the first hints of a bruise blooming just below his ear. Reyes kissed there softly, sweetly. The gunslinger was trembling in his arms, knees threatening to give way.

“Easy, baby,” Reyes purred and nuzzled McCree’s temple. “I have to go.”

“Please don’t.” McCree whimpered.

Reyes kissed the bruised skin again, making McCree gasp. “ _Mi vaquero_ ,” he whispered, heart surging. “I’ll be back in three days.”

“You fuckin’ tease.”

Reyes laughed, stepping back and watching as McCree slid down the wall until he was slumped on the floor, flushed and panting, a dishevelled mess. That bruise on his neck would linger there until Reyes returned, just as intended. Without a bandana, everyone would be sure to catch sight of it. Including Morrison.

 _Good_ , Reyes thought. _Mine_.

“Enjoy your vacation,” Reyes smirked as he slipped out the door.

\----------------------------------------------

The next three days crawled by for McCree, who spent a better part of them quelling his desires in the gun range. Headshots did wonders to distract an otherwise preoccupied mind, and he busied himself with riddling the targets in bullet holes while the love mark on the side of his neck persisted in its ache. Off the range and holed up in his quarters, however, was an entirely different story. The last few nights had been restless, cybernetic hand spent muffling the sounds of his own groans while his one of flesh worked him through thoughts of his Commander, back arched, hair slick in sweat as McCree gasped out his name in the darkness. Goddamn Reyes and his goddamn mouth with all it’s goddamn teasing. 

McCree fanned the hammer until the training bot before him was nothing but a mound of scrap metal, which he immediately shot the moment it decided to regenerate itself. 

He was not going to last through another day of this. 

“Feeling tense?”

McCree wheeled around, having not heard the quiet whirr of the doors opening over his own thoughts. Before him stood Captain Ana Amari, clad in cargo pants and a dark tank top with her sniper slung across her strong back. Long, silken black locks spilled down over those muscular shoulders, hints of silver strands already peeking through near her hairline. McCree straightened and tipped the brim of his hat in greeting, as he always did when encountering her. The woman was a legend, and of all the agents in Overwatch, McCree had grown to admire Ana most of all. She was the best damn shot in the world, and anyone who properly raised a kid on their own while working this job deserved all the respect he could offer. 

“A bit, ma’am,” McCree admitted softly as he rolled his left shoulder. “Arm’s still somethin’ I’m getting’ used to. Phantom pain tends to rile a fella up. That and bein’ cooped up in here all week. I’m real antsy.”

“I can imagine.” Ana nodded as she crossed the range and approached. When she reached out and placed her slender hand upon his bicep where skin met metal, McCree didn’t flinch or shy away. The weight of her hand was a comfort, and he could feel her natural warmth through the red plaid shirt he adorned. “But, it is wonderful to see you up and about after what occurred during the Blackwatch assignment. I’m sorry I was too busy to visit, but I did leave flowers at your bedside.”

“I saw them,” McCree smiled fondly, remembering the desert lilies. He recalled dense patches of them growing in the dusty little town where he’d been born. They’d been a comforting sight. “Meant a lot to me, ma’am. Y’know just how to butter me up.”

Ana smiled widely as she shrugged the rifle strap from her shoulder. “And how are you handling your suspension? I hope Gabriel was at least gentle when he broke the news to you?”

McCree resisted the urge to smirk, instead holstering his pistol and shrugging. “He made his point clear enough.”

“I can see that.” Ana locked her eyes on the bruise peeking out from beneath McCree’s collar.

McCree clapped a hand over it, flushing wildly. “I… uh, th-this ain’t from—”

“Relax,” Ana lifted her hand. “This isn’t a confrontation. Frankly, I think the two of you together is a good thing.”

McCree felt the tension in his back ease only slightly as he eyed her with wariness. “What… makes you think we’re together?”

Ana merely gave him a look that made him shrink into himself like a child who had just been caught in a lie. 

“I’ve known Gabriel for over twenty years, Jesse,” Ana explained. “He’s one of my dearest friends, and when Jack was given his promotion to Strike Commander, Gabriel…” she paused, exhaled tightly as though something was pressing down on her chest. “…he did not take it well. For a long time, he closed himself off from us. He’s suffocating under the weight of his own anger, of the notion that we somehow betrayed him. I could see it eating away at him. He barely spoke to me anymore. He was the ghost of the man I once knew. The misery was obvious to us all, and it worried me. But then you came along.”

McCree swallowed hard.

“When I see him with you, all that tension, that despair, that resentment… it disappears. He seems like his old self around you. The Gabriel that I fought alongside, that I considered my best friend and brother. You’ve brought out what I once thought was lost forever.” Ana stepped forward, removed McCree’s hat and brushed back his bangs with the sort of motherly affection that made McCree’s heart ache for the woman who birthed him. The woman whose face he’d forgotten long ago. “You’re good for him, and he for you.”

“He gave me a home,” McCree heard himself whisper. “A second chance. A purpose. He believed in me and pushed me and worked me to the brink, and I can’t thank him enough for it. I’m better because of him.”

“I like to think you returned the favor.”

McCree could only nod, heart heavy in his chest. He’d never missed Reyes more than he did right now. The three days felt like a thousand, and Ana’s words only seemed to slow the clock even more. 

“Now I am not saying everyone will approve of this, so you two must attempt to be as discreet as possible,” Ana advised as she returned his hat. “A relationship between a commanding officer and a lower ranking agent is not necessarily forbidden, but it isn’t widely accepted, either. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy,” she patted his cheek before hoisting up her rifle and heading deeper into the range to practice. Not that she needed it, but a good soldier always remained sharp. That’s what Reyes taught him. “Oh, and I thought you be interested to know that the Blackwatch agents returned to base an hour ago. I suspect you’ll find Gabriel in his office.”

McCree had never bolted out of a room quicker, trailed by the sound of Ana’s laughter before the doors whirred shut behind him. Reyes’ office was on the other side of the base, and the jangle of McCree’s spurs echoed through the winding corridors with each strike of his boots. He did everything in his power to get there as quickly as possible, avoiding the mess hall and lounge areas where he could hear most of the Blackwatch agents settling in for the evening. Reyes’ office was behind a set of double doors on the top floor of the western side. McCree didn’t bother knocking before he closed his fist around one of the handles and pushed his way inside, half-blinded by the light from the setting sun bleeding in through the monstrous window.

Reyes was seated at his massive desk, eyes turned down and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was donned in one of his hoodies, though devoid of his usual beanie. The dark curls of his hair glinted as though freshly washed and only half dried, and McCree couldn’t help but feel his heart plummet into his stomach at the sight of a fresh cut on Reyes’ cheek below his right eye, held closed by thin sutures and medical tape. He’d already been to see Angela, it seemed. 

McCree gently eased the door shut behind him and leaned back against it, fingers finding the lock and giving it a sharp twist until it clicked into place. 

“Enjoy your vacation?” Reyes didn’t look up from the paper work he was writing on as he spoke. Behind him, McCree could see the roaring sea through the window as the scarlet sun began its descent below the horizon line. 

“How’d you know it was me?” McCree quirked his head.

Reyes’ eyes lifted, and he regarded McCree over the frames of his glasses. Damn, he always looked good in those. “You’re the only person who strolls in here without knocking, first. And the only one I wouldn’t chastise because of it.”

“That favoritism of yours is gettin’ outta hand, _Jefe_.”

Reyes smirked and turned his attention back to the paperwork before him. As McCree approached, he admired the quick flourish in which Reyes signed his name at the bottom of each page; mission reports from the unit, undoubtedly. It made him wonder how the assignment had went, each up and down, whether they’d brought down the hostiles and accomplished their task without a hitch. Questions better reserved for a later time, he decided as he rounded Reyes’ desk and sat himself on the edge of it. Once there, McCree noticed a small bundle of red fabric carefully folded into a rectangle atop a stack of folders. 

“What’s that?” He asked, curiosity piqued. 

Reyes slid the bundle over with his left hand as he continued writing with his right. “For you.”

McCree blinked, surprised and delighted. “Well shucks, darlin’, ya went and got me a present?” 

The bundle had some strange weight to it, he noticed as he gathered it into his hands. With each careful unfold, the gunslinger realized this wasn’t just some scrap piece of cloth he was holding, but a new bandana. Red with some fringing at both ends, just like the one he’d had before. It was wrapped around something metal, by the feel of it, and McCree let out a bark of laughter when at last he uncovered the surprise within.

It was a belt buckle. Glimmering gold in color, made up of four block letters: BAMF.

“You son of a bitch,” McCree chuckled as he lifted the buckle to get a look at it in the light. 

“Anyone who goes through a blast of that size and lives to still be a royal pain in my ass deserves nothing less than that,” Reyes said as he clicked his pen closed and slid his paperwork aside.

“Ya sure this doesn’t violate the dress code?”

Reyes leveled him with a look from beneath his dark brows. “You dress like a cowboy on purpose. You fucked the dress code the moment you were recruited and never looked back.”

“I have an aesthetic to maintain.”

“Uh huh.”

McCree’s cheeks ached something terrible with the amount of smiling he was doing, but he’d be damned if he complained about it. As Reyes leaned back in his leather chair, the gunslinger took it as a silent invitation, and slowly slid down off the desk to settle himself upon his Commander’s lap. The chair squeaked under their combined weight, but held true as McCree straddled Reyes’ hips and leaned in to press their foreheads together, not minding that the gesture nearly caused his hat to fall off.

Reyes’ hands were broad and warm as they slipped beneath the back of McCree’s shirt and caressed the skin there, mapping each bump of spine with his fingertips. McCree sighed, arching into the touch while his eyes fluttered closed in quiet, unspoken bliss. 

Reyes chuckled softly at that. “I take it you missed me, _cariño_.”

“Missed you somethin’ terrible,” McCree admitted, frowning as he ran a gentle thumb over the cut on his Commander’s cheek. Reyes hissed softly. “You got hurt.”

“A knife to the face isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me,” Reyes murmured in a reassuring tone. “Just one more scar to add to the collection.”

Carefully, McCree took hold of Reyes’ reading glasses and pulled them from his face to set them aside along with his bandana and belt buckle. Once gone, he leaned in and feathered his lips over the healing wound, kissing sweetly, letting his mouth follow the paths of each scar across his Commander’s face. Reyes made a soft sound beneath him, eyes falling closed, which allowed McCree to place a kiss upon each eyelid. He made certain to kiss everywhere; his brow, his cheeks, his bearded jaw, the tip of his nose. He could feel himself trembling as he did so, overwhelmed by how far they had come, and how much farther they had yet to go. How much more there was to explore. Reyes must have noticed, too, because his strong arms were suddenly curled around the gunslinger’s middle to draw him in closer.

“You’re shaking,” Reyes breathed.

McCree shook his head as he attempted to play it off. “I ain’t. Just cold.”

“It’s never cold in my office.”

The gunslinger had to laugh, more so at his own weak attempt at a lie. One of Reyes’ hands removed itself from his back and reached up to cup the side of his face. McCree leaned into it, nuzzling his Commander’s palm with his lips and nose.

“ _Eres hermoso_ ,” Reyes whispered, thumb sweeping softly over McCree’s cheekbone. He leaned in closer, breath a warm wash that caressed the gunslinger’s face. “Kiss me.”

McCree was damn certain his heart was going to rip through his chest at any given moment, and he grinned stupidly because of it before closing the distance between their mouths at last. The kiss was hesitant at first, careful, a question rather than a statement. He could feel Reyes’ special smile against his own, and McCree sighed before collapsing into the kiss as his fingers tangled through his Commander’s curls. Reyes was as fierce a kisser as he was a fighter; mouth bruising and teeth tugging and nipping at the gunslinger’s lips until they were just as worn and marked as his neck had been. McCree couldn’t hold back the groan that tumbled out of him, hips rolling forward experimentally, grinding into the lap he sat in as Reyes’ tongue swept in and claimed his wicked mouth. McCree decided that he seemed to enjoy it when he felt his Commander’s hands slip into the back of his jeans to give his ass a firm, possessive squeeze. The gunslinger laughed. Reyes did, too.

“Y’make me happy,” McCree admitted against his Commander’s mouth. “So fuckin’ happy.”

Reyes smiled until the corners of his eyes crinkled, and he leaned down to place a firm, lingering kiss on the gunslinger’s collar bone, nose tracing a line up McCree’s throat and chin until their lips met once more. This kiss was slow and soft but no less passionate. “You make me happy, too.”

McCree swallowed hard, remembering Ana’s words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” McCree nipped at his Commander’s lower lip, before wiggling himself free of his grip and sliding from his lap. Slowly, he sank down onto his knees between the desk and the chair, hands kneading the muscle of Reyes’ thick thighs and parting his legs wide enough to settle between them. Fingers of metal hiked up the hem of Reyes’ hoodie, exposing a strong stomach dusted over in a trail of dark hair that led downward, which McCree worshiped in soft kisses. There were scars here, too; remnants of bullet wounds and knife marks. Reminders of Reyes’ strength in battle and in life. McCree took the time to kiss each one firmly. He could feel his Commander take off his hat and run tender fingers back through his unkempt hair.

“Jesse, you don’t have to—” Reyes was cut off, words falling into a soft breathy groan as McCree mouthed at the hardening bulge confined within his jeans, nose and tongue teasing the dampening fabric. “Fuck.”

“Relax, shut yer mouth, and lemmie take care of you for once,” McCree purred as he quickly worked the clasp and zipper open. 

There came no protests this time, and McCree greedily reached down to take his Commander in his hand at last. Reyes was thick and heavy and beautiful in his palm, and the gunslinger didn’t hesitate to flatten his tongue on the protruding vein at the base and run it upward slowly, savoring the salty musk he tasted as he traveled up to the crown. He could hear Reyes breathing heavily, and McCree made sure to lock their eyes in a gaze that crackled like lightning between them when he took his Commander fully into his mouth. It was a lot, the girth of Reyes causing his cheeks to ache as they stretched wide, and he curled his fingers around the base of him to knead the flesh he couldn’t swallow. He watched Reyes as he did so, loving the way his Commander’s eyes rolled back and a string of Spanish curses tumbled passed his lips. 

“ _Dios mío_ , baby,” Reyes moaned, curling fingers tightly into the back of McCree’s hair as his head started to bob. 

The tug to his hair made McCree groan as he swallowed Reyes down inch by inch, letting the tip strike the back of his throat over and over until the heady sounds of his Commander’s voice filled the office. McCree had always wondered what Reyes sounded like as he came undone, what that deep growl of a voice would turn into as he was taken to the edge. He’d fantasized about It for years, would get off to the very thought of being the reason Gabriel Reyes lost all control of himself. And now he was living it, and it was better than he’d ever been able to imagine. McCree released Reyes with a wet, gasping pop, tongue swirling circles around the crown before dipping into the slit right at the tip. 

His Commander seemed to enjoy that, hips stuttering upward. “Oh f-fuck.”

McCree was grinning like the devil, and he lifted his head so Reyes could see the pride in his eyes as the sun glistened salaciously off his wet lips and chin. His hand continued to work Reyes over from base to tip, pumping in a steady rhythm. His Commander’s eyes flashed before reaching down and seizing McCree’s bearded jaw in one hand, guiding him into a bruising, heart-stopping kiss. The gunslinger hummed into it, fingers tightening their hold just enough for him to feel Reyes gasp against his mouth. He swallowed down the sound like a sip of his favorite whiskey, drunk on the effects of Gabriel Reyes faster than any alcohol he’d ever consumed. 

“I want you to fuck my mouth until you come,” McCree said roughly. “And I want you to say my name when you do.”

“You giving orders to me now?”

“Damn fuckin’ right.”

When McCree took Reyes into his mouth again, he held himself perfectly still, letting his Commander get a solid grip onto the back of his hair until his scalp stung deliciously. Reyes then began thrusting upward, striking the back of McCree’s throat each time his hips jutted off the seat. The gunslinger groaned, letting his Commander feel the vibrations of his voice as he repeatedly swallowed around him. Reyes wasn’t as brutally rough as he could have been, making love to McCree’s mouth rather than fucking it raw. McCree shivered at that, reaching down between his own legs to palm at the aching bulge trapped within his pants. 

“J-Jesse…” Reyes keened, white knuckling the arm of his chair with the hand not currently buried in the gunslinger’s hair. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last long, baby.”

McCree squeezed at his Commander’s tense thighs, letting him know it was okay to let go. It didn’t take much longer after that, with the gunslinger hollowing out his cheeks and sucking deeply while his tongue caressed the sensitive underside, before Reyes’ hip movements became erratic and his voice grew high and breathy. One, two, three more thrusts into McCree’s mouth and Reyes’ body grew rigid, head thrown back through the cry of McCree’s name when his release overcame him. McCree moaned, greedily swallowing down each warm spurt that shot across his tongue, refusing to let up until his Commander collapsed onto the chair, spent. The fingers in the back of his hair loosened their hold and McCree lifted his head, panting as he admired Reyes in the dying light. His brow glistened with a light sheen of sweat, and his cheeks were flush and gorgeous. McCree dropped another kiss to his Commander’s stomach as he gingerly tucked him back into his jeans, eyes lifting when Reyes slipped one hand beneath his chin to tilt his head up.

“ _Ven aquí, vaquero_ ,” Reyes whispered, voice rougher than usual. 

McCree eagerly did as bade, crawling up onto Reyes’ lap once more and encircling him in his arms. Reyes kissed him deeply, robbing the gunslinger of breath as their tongues lazily swept together. The air between them smelled of smoke and sweat and sex, and McCree was dizzy from it all. He was so caught up, in fact, that he didn’t notice his jeans coming undone until his Commander slipped one hand within them. McCree gasped sharply into the kiss, hips bucking forward as Reyes’ fingers curled around him and began a quick, steady pump of their own. His eyes drifted closed, head tipping back and mouth falling open, granting Reyes access to the exposed curve of the gunslinger’s throat. Reyes worshipped his neck in kisses and gentle bites, and McCree whimpered loudly as he felt one callused thumb swipe across the pearls of moisture beading on the sensitive crown.

“Gabe,” McCree groaned, hands burying in those luscious dark curls. He was holding Reyes as if his very life depended on it. “That feels so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

“Mhm,” Reyes hummed against the gunslinger’s Adam’s apple. 

McCree knew it wouldn’t take much more. He’d already gotten so worked up bringing Reyes over the edge, he’d been close to his own release just listening to the sounds he was making. He could feel the sweat building on his skin, could feel his hair clinging to his brow as Reyes stroked him, squeezing and kneading the aching flesh from base to tip. The gunslinger shuddered as the coil building in his stomach tightened, and he brought their foreheads together, meeting their eyes.

“Come for me, baby,” Reyes breathed.

That was all McCree needed, hands curling into his Commander’s hoodie for purchase as he tumbled over the edge of release with a broken, blissful shout. Reyes led him through it, murmuring sweet Spanish nothings against the shell of his ear, pumping wildly until his hand was coated in jets of pearly white. McCree shuddered as the last of his strength left him and he slumped forward into his Commander’s shoulder, basking in the hazy lights flashing behind his closed eyes. Reyes placing soothing kisses against his temple as he fished for a tissue in the top drawer of his desk to get them both cleaned up. Once done, the gunslinger was gathered close, cradled like something inexplicably precious against Reyes’ chest. 

They remained that way as the shadows moved across the office walls when the sun at last disappeared beyond the rolling waves. McCree, nestled against his Commander’s chest, smiled softly to himself as Reyes took up his cybernetic hand and studied it quietly by the glow of the desk light. He brushed his thumb across the steel knuckle joints, and entwined those silver fingers with his own, before drawing it up and placing a kiss to the cool surface of it. 

McCree, throat growing tight and chest feeling full, couldn’t take the years of silence anymore. “I love you.”

“I know,” Reyes whispered, meeting McCree’s shocked gaze with those soft brown eyes. “And I’m sorry it took me forever see that. What I’m even sorrier for, however, is how long it took for me to admit to myself how much I fucking love you in return. I’m an emotional dumbass most of the time.”

The gunslinger swallowed hard, eyes burning. “You mean that?”

“That I’m a dumbass?”

“No,” McCree laughed, eyes closing as he felt his Commander brush away a tear that fell free. “That you love me.”

“ _Fucking_ love you are the words I used, actually. And yes. God yes.” Reyes smiled before leaning in for a kiss.

McCree surrendered all of himself to it, cybernetic hand cupping the back of Reyes’ head and holding him close for as long as possible, heart soaring with happiness at the possibility of what the future held for them now.

\----------------------------------------------

He was being hunted.

McCree ran as quickly as his body would let him, boots sloshing through puddles of fresh rainwater marbled red with swirling drops of blood; his own or the enemy’s, he couldn’t tell anymore. Did that thing even bleed? The strike of his boots against the cobblestone alleyways of King’s Row sounded off like the crack of a thunderhead in his ears, and he warily looked back over his shoulder, wondering if it was still following him. The streets were dense with fog from the storm, and McCree skidded to a halt within the shadows cast by the nearby buildings, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. His sides stung something fierce, and he hissed sharply, gazing down at the holes blown through his red sarape by the spray of bullets that nearly took him out. He could see a worrisome dark stain seeping through his shirt, and he touched it, wincing as his metal hand came away slick with blood. His breathing was labored, each inhale bringing with it the pleasant sensation of a blade twisting through his ribs. The familiar taste of copper danced on his tongue. 

“Son of a bitch,” he huffed through clenched teeth before hastily reloading his pistol with six more bullets. 

Back pressed against the wet brick, McCree halted his breathing and listened. He could hear the distant roar of vehicles over the rain slick roads, and the steady drip of water pouring from eavestroughs and café canopies nearby. There came no distinguishable footsteps, but it’s not like the damn thing walked most of the time, anyways. No, it seemed to glide, weightless as smoke drifting from the end of a cigarillo. 

But, he’d injured it. That much the gunslinger knew. He’d poured two whole rounds of bullets into that thing when it was solid enough to take it, and yet it still didn’t drop. McCree recalled the sound it made; that low growl that seemed to resonate straight down to the bones until his blood ran like ice. It didn’t sound human. Couldn’t possibly be human, and the gunslinger knew that noise would haunt his dreams if he got out of this alive.

That was when McCree’s flesh crawled as he was met with the unmistakable feeling that he was being watched. Heart thundering, he looked up just in time to catch sight of a massive shadow blotting out the starlight above; dark and jagged as though a very piece of the night sky had been torn loose and plummeted to the earth. The figure dropped down from the roof above him, forcing McCree to gracelessly tumble out of harms way, fresh wounds screaming in protest as he did so. Turning, he desperately fired three more shots, which did about as much to help his cause as shooting the damn wall. The bullets struck the figure, no question. McCree could see thin coils of black smoke seeping out of each hole the gunslinger had blown into it, and yet the damn thing stayed upright, stalking forward toward him. It was built like a man, broad and strong and cloaked from head to foot in black. The ends of an ankle-length leather coat snapped as it was carried upward by the cool wind, and beneath its hood was the jarring flash of a bone white mask. It was carved like death’s head, and yet there was something oddly birdlike about it as well, like stumbling upon the eerie presence of a barn owl hidden in the shadowed rafters. McCree could see long steel claws curl around a pair of twin shotguns, which hung at the figures sides for the time being. 

“Still quick on that draw,” the figure spoke in a chilling, gravely voice. It was deep, undeniably male, and… there was something else. Something embedded in the timbre of that sound that seemed strangely familiar. 

He’d heard it before. Where the fuck had he heard it before? 

McCree tried to straighten, tried to fight back with some semblance of dignity, but he was too goddamn hurt. Hunched into himself with his cybernetic arm braced against the wall, he quickly lifted his pistol to unload the rest of his round. The man in black beat him to it, though, firing one shotgun blast against McCree’s metal arm. Hot sparks flew wildly at the impact, causing the gunslinger to lose his grip and drop in an agonized heap on the wet cobblestone. His pistol dropped from his hand, skittering across the ground and out of reach. The man in black promptly kicked it away. McCree groaned, the taste of blood growing thick in his mouth. 

“But, not quick enough,” the figure added, and the mockery of those words felt like a punch to the gunslinger’s gut.

“Who the fuck are you?!” McCree snarled out.

In a sudden rush of choking black smoke, the figure’s weight was on top of him, pressing against his ribs until McCree gasped desperately for a taste of air. The cool bite of the man’s clawed gauntlet curled around his throat, not so much squeezing as it was simply holding him firmly in place. The gunslinger grit his teeth, glaring venomously at the white mask that loomed close, studying him through vacant soulless eyes of black. McCree struggled, kicked until his spurs scraped loudly against the stone and his hat tumbled from his head. The smoke was surrounding them both, now, tumbling plumes of black searing the back of his throat each time he dared take an inhale. He expected it to smell of sulfur, of hellfires and the putrid stench of charred corpses, but instead it carried with it an oddly pleasant aroma. Deep and dark, musky like the air after the last embers of a summer bonfire were snuffed away. Once again, a familiarity that he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around.

McCree went deathly still when he felt the cool glide of clawed fingers brushing back his hair. A tender, almost affectionate gesture that turned his stomach. A touch he hadn’t felt in over six years.

“You look beautiful framed in smoke,” the figure whispered. “I always thought so.”

McCree stared with wide, horrified eyes. 

“You were my favorite once,” the man in black continued, and suddenly the fingers wrapped around his neck tightened their hold, and that voice grew dark and molten with anger. “But, for the life of me… I can’t seem to remember why.”

The gunslinger gasped as the air was crushed from his throat, the cold wash of realization flooding through his beaten body as he choked out a single word. A name McCree thought he’d never speak again. 

“…G-Gabe?”

The butt end of a shotgun came swinging down from above, and the world all at once went black.


End file.
